Except no one comes to the door.
I knock a little louder. And then LOUDER. But still nothing.
Assuming no one’s home, I’m feeling somewhat relieved. But I still need to get my bag. I’ll bet Danny took it up to his room to see if I had any more money in there.
I open the screen door and tiptoe across the linoleum bricks. I’ve never just come into anyone’s house like this before, and it’s making me feel all jittery inside. What if his parents come home and find me searching through his room for my bag, thinking I’m some burglar? What if a neighbor saw me just walk in and has already called the cops?
What if Danny really is home? What if he knew all along I was outside and was just waiting for me to break in so that he can justifiably attack me for breaking and entering?
I make my way up the stairs, where I’m thinking the bedrooms are. My nerves are completely scrambled, fried up and ready for toast. But the house is so still—so quiet, like even if someone is home, they’d have to be sleeping or dead or in a coma or something. I tell myself this over and over again up each step to help ease the jitters.
There are three bedrooms at the top of the stairs. From where I’m standing I can almost see into two of them. One has a giant four-poster bed, so I’m thinking that it’s his parents’. The other is decorated in princess pinks.
Danny’s must be the one at the end of the hall. The one with the closed door. My heart is literally pounding out my chest, like I could almost grab it up in a beat. I think I’m going to be sick. I look to my left and see there’s a bathroom there. I consider using it, throwing up all the scrambling inside. But I just need to get this over with.
I suck in a deep breath and throw the door open. Empty. There are clothes strewn all over the floor, empty food containers on the desk, football gear in the corner, Xbox stuff set up in front of the TV, but no Danny.
No Danny!
I let out a happy breath, pat over my chest to tame the wild beat, and start looking around for my bag. I see it right away, laying sprawled open on the floor, next to his bed.
My eyes wander up to the pillow. On it are Barbie and Buzz. Barbie’s legs are wound around his hips and she’s planting a big, sloppy kiss right on his face. I grab the bag and shove them both inside. Then I check the side pocket for my remaining money. Oddly enough, it’s still there. Only my makeup bag isn’t.
I start looking around the night table for it, even check inside some of the drawers. No luck. I move over to the dresser and peek up into the mirror. But instead of seeing myself, I see Danny.
He’s standing behind me in the doorway—a football jersey down to his knees, tube socks up around his calves, my cherry-red lipstick across his lips, the vee at the top accentuated by flawless application, like he’s been wearing it all his life.
I feel my mouth drop open because I can’t believe it, and I don’t think he can either, because he’s staring at me like he’s just as shocked. I turn around for a better look at him and see that one of his eyebrows looks different. Less furry. Plucked into a princess-worthy comma. And I’m pretty sure it’s bleeding, too.
The whole scene makes me feel sad. Sad because of the rubber dick, because of how unhappy he looks, and because I was the one who made the furry-eyebrow comment.
Me and Danny just stand there and stare at each other, and all I can think is at least it’s a happy ending for Barbie and Buzz, who have once again found each other.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 12, 9:30 P.M.
I never really thought of Nicole Bouchard as being much more than some girl I grew up with. The quiet, Brillo-haired skinny girl who always looked the same, whether it was the second or the tenth grade. Who never grew boobs and always wore braces, and always did her homework, even for art class.
The girl I could never hate because she was the one who got me through geometry, who slid her quizzes to the edge of the desk so I could copy down all those formulas for pis and squares. The girl I knew kind of had a crush on me, because I’d constantly catch her watching me—on the field, during class, from behind her locker. Because she’d come to all my hockey games. And include me on her Christmas and Valentine card list—the envelopes sealed with smelly fruit stickers—even though we never shared conversations much longer than “hi” and “what’s up?”
The same girl who had her best friend call me up to ask if I’d go to the Sadie Hawkins dance with her last fall, who listened in on the other end of the line to see what I’d say—like it was fifth grade all over again and she was too afraid to call me herself.
That girl. The one whose best friend I ended up asking out.
And yet … it was just earlier today that I was rolling around naked with her in her mother’s flower garden. When I noticed that she wasn’t wearing those braces anymore. And her body didn’t look quite so skinny. And the Brillo-pad hair had gotten softer and turned the color of cinnamon toast. That she’s actually pretty cute—like the girl next door come to life.
And I’m still dating her best friend.
The thing is, though I never really admitted it before, maybe I kind of liked that she went to all my hockey games, because, win or lose, she was the one person I could count on to be there no matter what.
Even more than my best friend.
Even more than my girlfriend.
Maybe once or twice I’ve wanted to tell her that, but it just never seemed to be the right time. And so instead it was this unspoken secret the two of us had together.
So maybe I’ll tell her today.
I get to her house and her mother leads me around the back. “You’re Kelly’s boyfriend, aren’t you?” she asks, taking a second glance over her shoulder like I’m some player.
I nod, feeling guiltier by the moment, wondering what exactly she knows about my afternoon with her daughter—if she saw all the broken flowers.
Nicole is sitting on the patio with Maria, one of Kelly’s friends from school. Maria looks like she’s getting ready to leave. She slides her chair back and stands from the table.
That’s when Nicole notices me. When her mouth drops open and eyes get wide, like she’s gonna freak out.
“Hey,” I say, pretty freaked out myself. I mean, what are the odds that Maria would be here, too? I take a deep breath and join them at the table, relieved when Mrs. Bouchard goes back inside the house.
“You’re a little late,” Maria informs me.
I have no idea what she’s talking about. The bug light behind us is zapping up all the bloodthirsty mosquitoes. I almost wish I was one of them. I peek at Nicole, wondering what she’s thinking right now—if she absolutely hates me.
“You should have been here an hour ago,” Maria continues, gesturing toward the pile of books on the table—the covers decorated with cakes and streamers.
“Okay,” I say, still clueless, wondering why she’s being such a bitch—if it’s because she knows about what happened this afternoon. I look toward Nicole, trying to figure out if she told her, wondering if either of them said anything to Kelly.
“I got to go,” Maria says. “They’re gonna be closed by the time I get there.”
Good riddance, I feel like saying, but I bite my tongue because Nicole is here.
“Thanks for doing this, Maria,” Nicole says. “If they don’t have them, we can try Party Central tomorrow.”
“What are you shopping for?” I ask.
“Maria’s going over to Celebrations before it closes,” Nicole explains. “We’re on a mission for some Hawaiian leis—the floral ones, not the fuzzy plastic kind.”
I nod and it finally clicks; they’re planning Kelly’s welcome-home party.
As if I could feel any crappier.
Maria rolls her eyes at me, like she’s annoyed that I’m even here. Part of me feels bad for the girl. She’s had more scores made on her than the touchdown post at our school’s football field, but that still doesn’t stop her from playing wide receiver.
“What? What are you staring at?” she
snaps at me—just out of nowhere.
“Nothing,” I snap back.
“Maria’s been a huge help,” Nicole says, intercepting. “She has some really cool ideas.”
“Paper streamers and Hawaiian leis don’t exactly equal up to cool ideas,” Maria squawks.
“Whatever,” Nicole says. “You forgot to mention the other three thousand brilliant ideas you came up with. The girl should seriously be a party planner.”
Maria looks away and yanks down the sleeves of her sweatshirt, like she can’t stand to be complimented.
“Wait. I almost forgot,” Nicole says, jumping up from the table. “Don’t go yet.”
Maria lets out this big-ass sigh. “I told you, I have to leave.”
Nicole ignores her, running back into the house, emerging from the sliders a few seconds later, gift bag in hand. It’s the first time I notice that she’s wearing this short peach sundress with the straps of her bathing suit sticking out. When did she get so cute? And why didn’t I see it until just this afternoon?
“What’s that?” Maria asks.
“I got you a little something,” Nicole says, totally beaming at her. “It’s nothing, really. Just something I’ve been holding on to.”
“You don’t have to buy me stuff,” Maria says with another eye-roll. “I told you already. I’m not mad about earlier. I wouldn’t even have kept calling you if it wasn’t for Kelly’s party. The girl’s going to be totally pissed if we don’t do it up big.”
“No, no—I got this before I messed up our plans.”
Maria opens the bag, pulling out a black nylon backpack with metallic silver stitching, the letters CS written in graffitilike scribbles across the front.
“Cryptic Slaughter,” Nicole explains, pointing at the letters. “I ordered it off their Web site.”
“Are you serious?” Her bottom lip quivers just a bit, like maybe she’s not used to people doing nice things for her.
“To start off the new school year.… Like it?”
Maria runs her fabric-covered fingers over the surface, her sleeves pulled down over her hands even though it’s ninety frickin’ degrees out. A crystal pendant hangs around her neck. Nicole touches it. “Is this new?” she asks.
Maria shrugs. “A friend gave it to me.”
“It’s pretty on you.”
“Thanks,” Maria says, her voice barely even audible. She peeks up at Nicole finally, her face all red like she can’t say anything else. It’s like the words are stuck in her throat—like she’s all choked up.
Nicole gives Maria a hug and tells her that she’ll pick her up first thing in the morning for breakfast and more party-planning at Red’s.
Maria nods me good-bye, her eyes all red and focused toward the ground. And then she leaves.
And then Nicole and I are alone.
Nicole lights the citronella candle in the center of the table and slumps down in her chair, her body angled off toward the yard, her thick rubber-soled sandals only half pulled onto her feet.
“That was really cool of you,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the backpack. The way you were with her.”
She shrugs like it was nothing, like it’s just a part of who she is.
“So, we should talk about earlier,” I say, grabbing a pretzel from the bowl on the table. “What do you think we should do about it?”
“What do you mean?” She’s picking at her fingernails now.
“I mean, Kelly’s your best friend.”
“And?” She can barely even look at me.
“You didn’t talk to her today, did you?”
“No.”
“Did you tell Maria?”
She shakes her head, and I’m more than relieved. I let out a breath but then feel like a dick.
“We don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” she says, as though reading my mind.
“I know.” I shrug. “It’s just … I don’t know. I don’t want you to think I’m some jerk or anything.”
“So, what do you want?”
More shrugging.
“You know what this reminds me of?” she says. “That time in the fourth grade when you told Gina Bailey you’d be her valentine, but instead you gave all your sweetheart candies to Marley Maihos. Gina ended up bawling during recess.”
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
“I remember a lot,” she says, looking away—her voice barely above a whisper.
“That was a rough year for me,” I say in my own defense.
She nods and looks back at me. “I know. I was there, remember?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head like she doesn’t get it. “There was just some personal stuff that happened—family drama stuff.”
“You mean with your parents?”
I feel my face screw up. “How do you know about that?”
Nicole shrugs, telling me how she remembers the essay I wrote in English class—“What I Did During Christmas Vacation”—which sort of turned into “Why My Christmas Sucked Because My Parents Are Going to Get a Divorce.” Our ass of a teacher made me read the entire thing aloud in class.
Nicole sits there, detailing the essay like she wrote it herself-—like all of this just happened yesterday. She remembers how my dad’s work wanted him to transfer to Ohio, how that caused my mother to freak out since her family is here, and how I was scared out of my mind that they’d end up divorced—since they never really got along anyway.
“I can’t believe you remember all that.”
“It’s why you started working at such a young age, right?”
“Did I tell you that?”
She nods. “In art class. You told me that you wanted to get a job as soon as you could because your father lost his job. I figured it was because he didn’t move to Ohio. Didn’t you start working at, like, twelve or something?”
I nod, completely blown away by her—by all that she remembers, by how well she seems to know me.
“I really admired that about you,” she continues. “That you wanted to help out your family, that you wanted to pitch in and earn a few bucks. I think about it when I’m being really lazy.”
“Wow,” I say, leaning back in my chair, amazed that someone like her could ever be inspired by someone like me. I mean, nobody thinks of me like that—not even Kelly.
When Kelly said yes to going out with me eight months ago, I was psyched. She’s one of those girls you just never think you can get—super hot, kick-ass bod, likes to laugh. The type of girl you imagine hanging on the arm of some jacked-up quarterback with a Porsche 911. Not that I’m bad. I mean, I consider myself pretty good looking. I work out at least three times a week for hockey and I’m saving up to buy a Jeep. It’s just that, I don’t know, I always thought Kelly was in a different league. And when we started dating, I felt like people looked at me like I was in that league, too.
I wonder if that girl I met today at Dunkin’is right, and Kelly really did go to California to be with someone else. Would she really cheat on me like that?
Do I even care?
“What happened to your hand?” She’s looking at the gash across the palm. From today, when my garden shears slipped, because I wasn’t paying attention. Just after we … did it. I ended up stopping the bleeding with a rag and I thought I was all set, but then, on my way home, my car blew a tire, and the gash completely opened up while I was trying to put on the spare.
“Landscaping accident,” I say, forgoing the lengthy explanation.
“Why don’t you have a bandage on it?”
“I did. I had this scarf-thing on it earlier, but it just kept coming undone so I ended up taking it off.”
Nicole shakes her head and gets up, goes back inside the house, and a few seconds later, comes out with a first-aid kit. She rolls my palm open, plunks a peroxide-sopping wad of cotton in the center, and swipes downward. The sting burns so bad I almost piss myself. Major pain!
“It’s gonna
sting a little,” she says, halfway through the process.
“Just a little,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek.
She tosses the cotton to the side, grabs this long white tube, and squeezes a couple wormlike squirts across the wound. “I’m fine,” I say. “It’s stopped bleeding.”
“Yeah, but if you don’t want an infection, you need to take care of it.” She tops the whole procedure off by covering my hand with gauze and enough medical tape to wrap the gifts of everybody on my Christmas list for the next five years.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
“Do you make house calls?”
“I’ve retired that service,” she says.
“That’s too bad.”
She smiles and then bites her bottom lip like she’s trying to hold it in, but the smile is too big and so she just lets it out. “What?” she asks, her face turning red like I’ve totally embarrassed her.
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
It’s just so weird. In my car, on the way over here, I knew exactly what I wanted to do about this afternoon. I had the words practically memorized—Nicole, what happened between us was great and I’ll always remember it, but for some reason I think we got carried away. It was nobody’s fault; it just happened, but I think it was probably a mistake. I’m still with Kelly. She’s your best friend. I think it’s best for all of us if we don’t say anything. But now, face-to-face, talking with her like this, watching the shadow of the candle flame flicker against her bottom lip, I don’t think I can say any of that.
I don’t think I want to, either.
So we end up hanging out for a while, just shooting the shit. Nicole tells me how she wants to take some calligraphy class this fall. And I tell her how I want to try playing goalie this year. We talk about how neither of us has started our summer reading yet and how, if my plan works out, I should have enough money saved up for a semi-new Jeep by Thanksgiving. And it’s cool—how the conversation just flows; how she asks me lots of questions and looks into my eyes when I answer, like she’s really interested in what I’m saying; not just fake interested the way Kelly is a lot of the time. And so I can’t help but ask her, “How come you like me so much?”
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